Vivid

Bree was going crazy.

Sanity wasn't her strong suit anyway, but normally she could channel it into creativity or restless energy or, at the very least, a long, abusive hour at the gym. But everything she tried failed to clear the cobwebs in her head.

She wasn't even sure she could pin down why she felt like the world was spinning out of control. It wasn't: the bills were paid, the house was peaceful, and her husband was about to arrive home after what sounded like a good day at the office. Still she found herself staring blankly into nothing for long moments, or trailing off while doing some essential task.

The makeup smear was the last straw. Bree deposited herself on the couch, buried her face in her hands, and wept. She cried until her head ached and her heart felt wrung out, then flopped over onto her cheek and stared at the blank TV screen until she drifted into a fitful nap.

A key in the front door brought her awake, though she was too groggy to rise. She wondered if she should fix her inevitably disheveled appearance, maybe wipe off the makeup instead of adding to the new stain on the couch, but her energy level would not comply. So she kept staring until her husband came into the living room to set his bag down.

Micah stood over her, bringing with him his special brand of deodorant, sweat and cool breath that drove Bree wild. Her pussy tightened with familiarity and longing, but she could barely raise her head.

"What's wrong, pet?" Micah stretched out a hand and ruffled the hair sitting on her ear. "Bad day?"

"No," Bree said.

Micah waited a beat. She heard the half-smile, the affectionate exasperation, in his tone. "Then what?"

"I don't know," she said, sing-song. "I hurt, kinda. Nothing makes sense. I'm tired but I can't sleep. If I were a hard drive I'd want you to reformat me."

"But I like your partitions." He tickled the spot between her rib cage and her hip bone, and she managed to squirm. Micah squatted down beside her head and kissed her forehead, brushing her hair away from her face. "You're THIN32." He made sure the capital letters were clear in his voice.

Despite everything, his playful voice reached out and tugged the corner of her mouth into a tiny smile. "Kiss-ass," she said, but didn't mean it.

He took her hand. "C'mon." A tug. "C'mon! I can't reformat you without access to your slots."

Bree oozed off the couch and flopped onto the floor, face in the carpet. "Mmmph."

"Bree." Firm, unwavering, invigorating. "Get up."

She obeyed, heaving herself to her feet and shooting a startled look at Micah. He wasn't the quietest person she knew by any means, and he loved to make nasty jokes and spin scathing commentary. But it was mostly for his audience's sake, and never in front of the people he was teasing. And when it came down to it, he was kinder and more open than most people she knew. Right now, though, there was little trace of that in his voice; he was the consummate commander, leaving no room for questions.

But not quite, she thought as she twisted around the tight hallways and entered the bedroom. Underneath it, I hear him loving me.

She sat down on the bed, turning around in time to see Micah walk in and close the door with a firm hand. His golden-green eyes were steely. "Hands and knees. On the floor. Now."

"Micah," she started, but he crossed the room in one stride and clapped his hand over her mouth, so tight that when she tried to suck in her breath, she was sealed by his salty skin.

"Enough. Don't speak again until I say. Nod if you understand."

Bree bobbed her head, searching his face. The giver of orders. The man she strove to please over all others. His eyes burned into her.

"Good girl." The fire flickered and she knew she had nothing to fear, before the flames roared back and he shoved her away. "Hands and knees."

This time, she obeyed without hesitation. She gripped the carpet with her fingers and ground her bony knees down, willing her back to straighten as Micah tugged her pants down to her calves. In the reflection of the as-yet-unhung mirror sitting on the floor, she saw herself: silky hair wild about her face, makeup still smeared from sleep and tears, green eyes begging for sense to be made.

Sense asserted itself on her ass: Micah's hand came down firmly across both cheeks, the slap resounding against the walls. Bree quivered but did not cry out, pursing her lips together. Micah brought his hand down again. Again. Until her whole ass pinkened and her wrists were trembling under the strain. She maintained her silence, and for the first time that day, a gleam of triumph was born in her eyes. She saw it in the mirror and found that she could draw a deeper breath.

Micah's hands descended to the back of her neck and pulled her upright. He held her suspended for a moment, looking her up and down with rough assertion of his ownership. Bree was standing under her own power, but she felt like a kitten clenched, dangling, between the jaws of the lion. It took a few blinks, but she steadied her chin and gazed back at him courageously.

At last, he nodded his approval and tossed her onto the bed. She sprawled and lay without moving, trying not to wince at the lump of quilt digging into her back. Micah retreated to the closet and rummaged around. He returned momentarily with one of her bandannas in hand, rolled up to a tube. He pushed the fabric between her lips and loosely knotted it behind her head.

"Now," he said dangerously, right beside her ear, "not a sound. On your knees again."

Bree's pussy was soaked; she felt a patch of cooled moisture on the quilt as she rolled over and presented Micah with her ass. He made it tingle by running his fingers along the sensitive skin, and where he had slapped her harder, he bent to kiss. Bree closed her eyes with every touch. The coiled springs in her shoulders began to loosen.

He filled her without warning, grabbing her hipbones like handles and slamming into her. Bree bit down on the gag with all her might; she was leaking natural lube, but she had not been prepared for the sensuous violence of his descent into her and his cock worried at the back wall of her pussy. The pain was excruciatingly pleasurable.

Micah slapped her on the cheek and leaned over her to grab her chin and twist her face up and to the side. "Look at me," he demanded, and Bree opened her eyes. His was a conqueror's face - her unstoppable Irish warrior, who never settled for no. The sum of her fantasies washed over her, flushing her to an insatiable heat. So often she had drifted into dreams dreaming of the highland soldier who came to take the peasant girl away. She gave herself over to the minutiae of their coupling as he shoved her away and resumed his unquenchable thrusting:

His arms, thick with muscle, to protect and claim. The hairs on his corded legs making her soft skin rage as they pressed together, together, together. The chest that pillowed her when terror came in the night, always a barrel full of fervid love from which she was privileged to drink, now the impetus of his assertion over her. She drooled around the bandanna and tears slipped down her face. The bliss of powerlessness was unbearable.

He slapped her once on each cheek and she clenched. His fingers closed around the knot of the bandanna and tugged her head up, up, back, leaning over so their faces were less than an inch away.

"Tell me," he said, his voice shaking with the strain of keeping his orgasm at bay, "who you are."

The question froze the scene. His words were crystals, delicately suspended in the air. They formed a bridge over the vast crevasse between her and clarity.

"Yours," she breathed.

"Again," he said. They were still frozen, their words locked out of time.

"Yours," she said, stronger this time. "Your girl. Your property. Your slut, your servant, your lover."

"Again!" His forearms were shaking now, but he clamped her jaw in his palm. His fingers squeezed down to the bone.

Tears came. They were not the tears of earlier; those were self-pity and confusion. These were tears of certainty, of purity, of a braid of emotions she did not care to define.

"I am yours," Bree said as the world fell into place and time began again.

"Good girl," Micah said, and he too let go. "Now come."

He arched his back and clenched his fists, disappearing into the higher plane of consciousness. Bree tightened and followed suit, her hot juices spattering the bedding, mingling with his cum in and on and around her. With his heat came a slow, overwhelming need to curl into him, be devoured by him.

Slowly they unfolded. Micah kissed his way down her spine, lingering on each cheek of her reddened ass. Bree let her head fall, her sweaty forehead against the quilt. The exhaustion came flooding in, but her head was clear.

"Tell me," Micah said, settling into the mattress beside her and untagling her hair with his fingers. The conqueror was gone, replaced by the comforter. "Do you understand?"

"Understand?" The bridge he had just built her wobbled as she reached out to rest the tip of her finger on his nose.

He smiled. "Understand why I did that."

Bree nodded slowly. "It's a play on words, right? You gave me orders. But really, you gave me order." She scooted across the quilt until her lips were almost touching his. "You make my world make sense, Micah."

"You make my world worthwhile, Bree," he said, and love made his eyes greener as he enfolded her in a hug that encompassed her entire world.